


blue moon

by mortalitasi



Series: moonsbreath [2]
Category: Pillars of Eternity
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Dreams and Nightmares, F/M, Friendship/Love, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Memory Related, Pre-Relationship, Sisters, engwith is a huge clusterfuck of complexes crammed into a bunch of creaky machinery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-10-06 15:41:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17347940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mortalitasi/pseuds/mortalitasi
Summary: The closer the company gets to ending their pursuit of Thaos, the more the lines between reality and memory blur for the Watcher.Time is running out, and Burial Isle awaits.





	1. how she came to be

**Author's Note:**

> hi. please love my blue daughter.

_ A chill rain begins the third day of Winter’s Dusk. _  
  
_ Their daughter arrives on the heels of the first hour of noon; Argret lies back against the support of the many pillows the midwives gathered for her what seems so long ago, when the first pains seized her as she was preparing the Ancenze documents. She’d been helped onto the bed, faint with fear and excitement; the midwives called for Ywinn, boiled water, and cut squares of linen from a long roll of the stuff, all while bustling around her like busy, buzzing bees. _  
  
_ Now she rests, or tries to rest, feeling like she's been run over by an aurochs _ _ — _ _ or that she's given birth. _  
  
_ “Let me see her,” Argret rasps, wiggling the fingers of one hand at the head midwife. She wishes she could drink a lake, and sleep, and sleep, and sleep, but more than anything she wants to look upon the face of the daughter she labored so hard to bring into the world _ _ —the daughter that is physical proof of the love she and Ywinn have shared for so many years. _  
  
_ She receives no response immediately. This is wrong—her husband is not happy, he is hesitant. His dark brows are drawn low over his wonderful grey eyes, the muscles in his jaw pinched tight. Something like pain passes over his face as he looks down at the swaddled bundle in the head midwife’s arms. The room is so silent, except for the sound of Argret trying to sit up in her nest of sheets. _  
  
_ “What is the meaning of this?” she demands. _  
  
_ One of the midwives, a shorter human woman with closely-cropped brown hair, steps forward entreatingly. “My lady, please, do not move—” _  
  
_ “I am the mistress of this House and I shall do as I please,” Argret snaps, only momentarily regretting it when she sees the girl flinch. “Ywinn, bring her here.  _ Before _ I stand to do it myself.” _  
  
_ Her husband, usually so very eager to offer his opinions, only does as she asks after a long pause. He walks toward the bed as the midwives huddle together, watching apprehensively. For an instant, terror seizes her—is the child alright? She must be. Argret heard her cry, sure as there is a sun in the sky, a defiant, strident announcement of arrival:  _ I am here, I am alive, listen to me _! _  
  
_ Ywinn slips the precious burden into her arms; the blanket is warm with the heat of a tiny body—she can feel the miniature feet pressing at the inside of her elbow, see the little curled hands with all their perfect, small fingers, resting as though they're about to clasp together in prayer. Her daughter has skin the color of the sea, and moon-white eyes. The downy, fuzzy hair she notices at the scalp and nape is silvery blue, like light filtering through indigo water. The ears are slender and pointed, just like hers, just like Ywinn's. She cannot believe they created something so beautiful. _  
  
_ Joy swells in her heart, a terrible tide that cannot be stopped—the first crush of the endless ocean that is a mother's love. Sorrow tempers its edge. So many will not understand. So many will make life difficult for this lovely, lovely child. They will fear her, even if they revere her. She will always be, to them, godlike. Not kind, or clever, or pretty, whichever of those or other things she may come to be, because those qualities belong to people. And godlike, they will say, are most certainly not  _ people _. _  
  
_ “She is without flaw,” Argret says, lifting her gaze to look at Ywinn again. “She is healthy, and loud, and she has your nose. Is this not adequate?” _  
  
_ Some of the tension drains from Ywinn’s lean shoulders, and he comes to sit at her bedside, reaching out with a hand to caress her damp cheek. “I was frightened that you would…” _  
  
_ “Discard her?” she fumes, clutching her daughter to her chest. “She is  _ ours _. No matter what she looks like, or how many horns she will grow, she is ours.” _  
  
_ Ywinn gives her a weak smile. “I think only two is customary, love.” _  
  
_ She runs the tip of her nose across the babe’s forehead, over the mark of the lunar circle there in the center, smooth and pale against the rest of her, and then presses the softest kiss there; the smell of powder and linen and warm skin makes Argret’s breath catch. Tears well in her eyes, stinging and strong, and she decides in that instant she will be whatever this infinitesimal creature needs her to be. She will move land and sky if that is what it means to keep her little one safe. _  
  
_ “Argret?” _  
  
_ She clears her throat. “Will you be staying?” _  
  
_ He looks at her in disbelief. “‘Staying?’ Last I checked, we were bound in marriage.” _  
  
_ “That hasn’t stopped anyone before,” she murmurs, almost giving into the urge to cry when he comes to sit even nearer so that their shoulders are touching. _  
  
_ “I am with you to the end,  _ belafa,”  _ he says, cupping her cheek with one hand, brushing his thumb over the pointed tip of her ear. “And now we have another to protect, not just ourselves.” _  
  
_ Argret blinks rapidly, failing to keep her emotions suppressed. “I’m sorry for doubting you—I just—I thought—” _  
  
_ “It’s been a long day,” he interjects gently. His hand lowers, palm stroking over the baby’s temple. She watches his expression soften, sees the love in his eyes. “But rather worth it, I wager.” _  
  
_ She nods. “Yes.” _  
  
_ He gives her a last affectionate touch before turning to the midwives, who are still bunched together by the door of the master bedroom, as though they are anticipating punishment. “Ladies,” he says, wearing his politest smile. “I’m terribly sorry for the delay. Would you help my wife get comfortable?” _  
  
_ “It’s not a bad thing, my lord,” a woman blurts—she is even younger than her other colleagues, her face full of freckles. “Your daughter—she has been blessed by Ondra.” _  
  
_ “Indeed,” Ywinn says, though he can plainly identify the uncertainty in some of the others. “That is what I choose to believe.” _  
  
_ “Well, don't just  _ stand  _ here,” the head midwife—Taryn—starts, making the girls jump. She swivels on her heel, barking orders, putting her bloodstained hands to her hips. “Get to pulling the sheets—bring out the spares, and open the little window. Fetch some incense, as well. What are you gawping at? Have you lost your wits? Go! And quietly!” _  
  
_ The group disperses like smoke in the wind. Most leave, but a pair remains to carefully remove the bloodied mess under Argret’s legs; Taryn helps her change and rinses her thighs, toweling away the scarlet with a damp rag, but she barely notices. She is consumed with the sight of her little one, the new face that is going to be the center of her world from today onwards. _  
  
_ Everything has changed. _  
  
_ Taryn excuses herself to dispose of the soiled cloths, and Ywinn hovers close again, looking on tenderly at his family. He has to ask himself if Argret has ever been more radiant. The thick cascade of her auburn hair has almost totally escaped its tie, clinging to her shoulders and cheeks and collarbone. She almost seems like a painting, sitting there in her fresh white nightgown, running her fingers along their daughter’s blanket. Argret is always sharp, always watching—she only ever blunts the blade of her tongue when she is with him, careful to keep any sign of mildness to herself—but now she is unguarded and guileless, totally focused, the jagged edge of her wit worn away by something that cannot even yet speak. _  
  
_ “This is just the beginning,” Argret says to him, her husky voice lingering in the still air of the room like a haze of heat. _  
  
_ “I know,” he replies, soothingly. He clasps at her shoulder, rubbing a comforting circle into her neck. “We will face it together.” _  
  
_ “I think it suits her _ — _ the name we found in the family archives,” she continues, hefting the babe up to let him see her. “Ileána. Light-bearer.” _  
  
_ Ywinn chuckles, bending to kiss the top of her head. “You are certainly both glowing.” _  
  
_ “Her, a little more literally,” Argret says, sighing and letting herself lean back into his chest. _  
  
_ “Hello, Ileána,” he murmurs, touching his fingertips carefully to his daughter’s cheek, to the markings there. She blinks at him with those milky eyes, and the utter innocence of her strikes at him. He is responsible for them both, this barely-born life, and his sweet, obstinate Argret. He hopes he will be worthy of them. “We've been waiting for you. And we are very happy you're finally here.” _  
  
_ “Very happy,” Argret repeats. _  
  
_ She nestles her face into the crook of his neck, and they sit there for a while longer, sheltering their daughter, taking time in the silence before the greedy world plunges them into noise once again. _


	2. how it is now

In dreams, she wears another face: that of the ashen woman with dark eyes, shaped like Iovara’s, who talks through a cruel and humorless mouth.  
  
They were sisters, once, playing together in the soil and the grass, catching frogs, watching the green-gold beetles fly in the garden, stargazing late into the night on the rickety roof of the house—they used to talk about growing up and getting out, seeing the world for themselves, asking questions the missionaries couldn’t or wouldn’t answer. Finding the truth. What is the truth, anyhow? Some would say it’s all up to the person doing the answering—others would tell you that the truth is a reality, a combination of events detached from any sort of subjectivity, a set of circumstances that will not change no matter what is done to hide them, no matter what pretense has been constructed to convince others differently.  
  
Iovara never really agreed with her idea of truth, that people could not be trusted with their own freedom. It was too harsh, too full of authority. Lovely, eldest Iovara had chafed under Mother’s yoke, too, soft-hearted but defiant, bent on having her way. She does not understand that the world wishes to deceive itself, and always has—this will forever be beyond her.  It was not, however, beyond her sister.  
 _Most are too foolish to tie their own shoes,_ Ora had sneered, words designed to dig deep and hurt. _Why should anyone but the most dedicated be gifted the burden we bear?_  
  
They had worked side-by-side, for a time, soothing doubts and carrying the word of the gods to far-flung villages and towns, spreading gospel and faith with the blessings of the Oathbinder. They toiled under Her sigil, bringing stability and order to lawless frontiers, teaching the people the way of Woedica, tossing usurpers from their thrones of lies. It was peaceful, for a time, between them, when their purposes were aligned, and Iovara did not dispute the Word of their Queen. She reviled false idols as much as the rest of them, accepting the truth of the gods as the reality of her world.  
  
When things changed, they did so almost overnight.  
  
Rage wells in her chest, a terrible tide of fire and molten heat—it’s a reaction so primal and instinctual, rising in response to the memories, that nothing can be done to stop it. The line between hate and love is thin, so finely-spun that for some it can break with a breath. Training in the temple of Woedica taught her one thing: forsaken oaths are mortal wounds, ravages from which the soul cannot recover, a sin that follows you with each turn of the Wheel. She wants to watch Iovara suffer for that betrayal, for the bitter sting of abandonment, for _replacing_ her with _heretics_. _They are not your family,_ she screams at Iovara’s retreating figure. _Who stood by you when Mother died? Who defended me from Father’s hand? How can you leave me? You swore you wouldn’t_ — _you promised!_  
  
But Iovara says the gods are fake, and so is no longer beholden to their rules. What is an oath to a traitor? Dust and ashes. Smoke and dirt.  
  
She is alone, for the first time in her life—truly alone. The other acolytes whisper and stare. She is the sister of a turncoat, a blasphemer of the worst kind. Her blood is tainted. And so she works harder, drives her charges further, prays longer, helps to pen sermons and illuminate texts. She barely sleeps. Her cot in the Temple goes untouched, most nights. The rumors quieten the day she nearly breaks the mind of a flippant recruit with the touch of her thoughts, turning his dreams inside out, suffocating him with her fury when he _dares_ to imply a lack of faith. She expects a reprimand, but Master Thaos never exacts one, not even when they find the recruit hanging from a noose of bedsheets in the infirmary.  
  
Master Thaos wants to send her to the grand camp in Creitum, where the maggot queen has made her nest, drawing her disgusting children all around her.  
  
“A woman of your talents should not languish here,” the Master had said, watching her with burning eyes from beneath the cowl of his hood. He is not an overly-handsome man, simply ordinary, his jaw square-cut and his countenance rather forgettable; perhaps that is precisely what makes him so very lethal. He’d lifted a hand to touch her, tilting her head back with clinical appreciation while her heart blazed at his attentions. The smell of incense and iron still lingers on her robes. “I will draw out your potential. You will be our spearhead—the leader of our killing thrust.”  
  
The words linger in her mind as she washes her hands of ink, cloistered in the privacy of her chambers in the sanctum of the Temple. The water has chilled her fingers. She drains the bowl and fills it again, intent on rinsing her face.  
  
It is an opportunity, she knows—the trap can be set in Ossionus, milk and honey, to draw Iovara out from the buffer of her fortress of followers. The king of Ossionus is loyal to the Inquisition, a devout man lacking many scruples, but his pockets are deep, and his readiness to maintain goodwill with them makes him an excellent pawn. He would skin Iovara and all her wretched disciples alive, were he asked to do so by Master Thaos, and he would do it while uttering no complaint.  
  
 _Splash._ The cold bites at her cheeks and lips, trickling from the point of her chin.  
  
She stares into the mirror over her washbasin, tracking the droplets of water collecting at her chin. Iovara is the more gentle-faced of the two of them, with round features and an easy smile. Ora had been hard-pressed to find a resemblance before, but now it is almost impossible. Her ebony hair hangs low, almost to her waist; Iovara keeps hers shorter, at the shoulder and no lower. They used to weave braids for one another years ago, passing time like that, studding their handiwork with flowers and ribbons.  
  
Foolish, little, and hopeless girls. They are just memory now, fog scattered by wind.  
  
She sees a woman in the mirror, tall and proud, a little gaunt, pallid and poised, eyes black as pitch. _Drip._ The spearhead. _Drip_. The hope of the Inquisition.  
  
She will go to Creitum. She will trick the great deceiver herself, and after that—she will not fail him—not now, not ever.  
  
“Watcher!” a voice thunders, shaking the furniture and ripping down the walls. She screams, afraid, shielding her face from the shattered fragments of the mirror cutting at her skin. It comes again, like the shriek of steel on porcelain. “Watcher!”  
  
The world loses color, tearing at the seams.  
  
“ _Ileána!”_  
  
The command of the name shears her consciousness from the dream, leaving her exposed and gasping; the water is sweat, her nightclothes are clinging to her, and her heart is drumming out a warlike tattoo, straining under her flesh like a wounded animal. She stares down at her palms, greeted by the familiar sight of blue, her scars, the godlike markings, which even now pulse with a weak light from within—there is a magical fire burning in the hearth, keeping this part of the suite warm, bathing the bedside and the dim room in orange.  
  
“Where—where…”  
  
A hesitant pair of hands covers hers, cool and pale, stilling the trembling. “We are at the Celestial Sapling,” Aloth’s voice says to her quietly, slowly. “In Hearthsong.”  
  
“Aloth?” she asks, the word wavering. Her fingers curl, clasping at his wrists. It is usually someone else who rouses her from the nightmares—a tall, brotherly man with an easy smile, to whom the scent of pipesmoke clings. This is a change.  
  
“Aye,” Aloth replies. She looks up at him, drinking in the sight of his face, letting it ground her in the present moment, where she is nobody but Ileána, battling with the gaps in her soul. They met in Gilded Vale, chose to adventure together, shared a common pain in being Awakened; she remembers him better than herself. He is dressed in the robe he chooses to sleep in, his silken black hair loose of its customary bindings. The familiarity of him, watching her carefully with his blue-green eyes, is permission enough for her tears to overflow.  
  
“Oh,” is all she can stutter, uselessly. “I—I…”  
  
“It’s alright. You didn’t disturb anyone,” he murmurs, hands tightening around hers. “I had been reading. You were tossing and turning. You… you seemed to be in pain.”  
  
 _Drip_. Her sorrow beads on the coverlet, shining in the firelight. _Drip_. She’s adrift in the dark, holding onto him for safety. “It’s getting worse,” she says, bowing her head. “Now I—I can’t tell where she ends and I begin. I’m… remembering all these _feelings_ … I can’t….”  
  
He runs a thumb over her knuckles. “You must. You _must_ endure. I believe…” He shakes his head. “No. I _know_ you can. We’re so close.”  
  
She gives him a watery laugh, half-flattered and half-disbelieving. “I wish I could be as sure as you.”  
  
“You would be, if you could see yourself as I do,” he says. The sincerity of that remark makes her feel as though she’s teetering on the edge of a treacherous precipice. She is not sure she wants to cross over and fall. “I know what it’s like—to feel as though you’re losing yourself. You cannot think you and she are one and the same. You stand apart from her, whatever the memories say. From what you’ve told me… you could not be the same person.”  
  
“I _understand_ her,” she goes on, stifling a sob. “I would never do what she did. I couldn't. But I can see… I understand.”  
  
“And that is why you are who you are,” Aloth says softly. “Your kindness, your open mind, your willingness to aid others—they all do you credit.”  
  
Oh, Ondra. He truly _does_ believe it. Her heart is singing, even though she is weeping. “That means so much to me,” she says with a hiccup. “All I ever wanted was to help. All I wanted…”  
  
“And you did,” he insists, more gently than ever. “You've helped us all. You gave me the chance to be myself. I will never be able to repay that debt.”  
  
She shakes her head. “No. _You_ did that. You just needed the space to make your own decisions.”  
  
The corners of his eyes crinkle endearingly when he smiles at her, though there's something sad about such a tender expression, too. “You were the first to understand that, before even I,” he says, with a small chuckle. “Now, my thoughts are quiet. It's—indescribable.”  
  
She squeezes his hands, sniffling. “That makes me very happy. Truly.”  
  
Aloth coughs, looking down at the coverlet between them instead, his pointed ears peeking out of the forward fall of his hair. “I cannot say I comprehend what you are going through. I know you don't enjoy talking about it. But—my company is yours, as ever, should you wish it. I will listen. You are… a dear friend. It's the very least I can do.”  
  
 _Drip, drip._ The damp circles on the coverlet multiply as she sucks in a shallow breath. “You're already listening,” she croaks, almost amused. “You were there the first time I ever looked into a soul. You've seen more than anyone.”  
  
“That I was,” he mumbles. “I thought you were—unwell.”  
  
This time she does laugh, though she cuts it off quickly, rubbing her tears away on her shoulder. She speaks only after surveying the dark room for movement, making certain she's awoken no one. “Anyone would have thought that. You didn't even run away when I told you why.”  
  
“You _had_ just saved my life,” he reminds her in a wry tone. “I was willing to put up with a little madness.”  
  
“I'm glad you stuck with it,” she says, hearing the quaver come back into her voice. “I don't want to face this alone.”  
  
“You won't have to. We are all with you, for better or worse.”  
  
 _Or worse._ The fear rises in her, a poisonous flood.  
  
“What if I can't stop her?” Ileána asks, and then gulps. The present tense is appropriate for Ora, who doesn't seem dead at all, not with how she's been clawing her way out of memories and visions. Ileána almost expects to see her standing there by the mantelpiece, draped in the sweeping plum garb of the Inquisition, looming out of the darkness like some distended specter. Her lightless eyes are always watching. Judging.  
  
A furrow appears between Aloth’s brows. “You mean…”  
  
“Sometimes I can't tell if where I am is now, or—or then. If I'm remembering, or living,” she whispers. She can taste the salt of her own tears on her lips. “It feels more like dying.”  
  
“No,” he says, as though he's rejecting even the idea of it. His hands press down on her own. “We will find Thaos—we will go to Sun In Shadow, and we will find you peace.”  
  
The confidence in his voice makes a new rush of heat pool in her eyes. Aloth almost never sounds _sure_ of anything. He analyzes, observes, looks before he leaps—he is perpetually engaged in planning and contingency—but he seems so certain that she will succeed, even without his usual mountain and a half of proof. He has such little faith in anything left; it's a precious currency, and he's spent it on her.  
  
She moves without really thinking about it, leaning into him and setting her temple to his shoulder, careful not to jab him with her horns. He shouldn't see her cry, not like this. He stiffens when they touch, and she curses herself for being impulsive—for seeking comfort from someone who has already given much. But he lifts his arms as she tries to back away, pressing her to him, awkward and earnest. She responds immediately, clutching at the back of his robe with desperate hands, wracked by grief. He smells of ink and herbal soap, and he is warm, his heartbeat fast but steady.  
  
“It's going to be alright,” he says into her hair.  
  
She wants to thank him, for she appreciates the lie. It's what she needs to hear in this moment, though it isn't true. She can only cry harder, pushing her palm against her mouth to stifle the noise.  
  
Nothing is ever going to be alright again, because even if they do succeed—even if Thaos doesn't kill them all and continue his ghastly work—she will have changed, and she will have changed the entire world with her. No one should have that responsibility. No one should have that power.  
  
Not even gods.


	3. how it nearly ended

Burial Isle is as lush and verdant as the rest of Eir Glanfath.  
  
The ferryman’s boat cuts through the still, glassy waters like a knife: the lake shimmers and ripples as they sail on, engulfed by quiet. Dorvhal had cheerily informed them that the island was cursed, but Aloth could hardly find it in himself to be surprised any longer. What's a curse after everything they've seen and learned? Still, the towering shape of the Isle menaces him, foreboding as it is, and it's coming closer with every stroke of Dorvhal’s oar. The shore is serene, dark sand dotted with smooth boulders, a study in untouched nature—it raises every hair on Aloth’s arms and neck to a point.  
  
Dorvhal guides his boat with practiced ease, expertly ushering them into the rickety dock jutting out of the shallows.  
  
“I'll not go further than this,” the ferryman says when they come to a gentle stop. “Do what you must—I'll wait for you anon, but come nightfall, I'll be sailing back, passengers or no. It’s bad luck to be out among these stones in the dark.”  
  
“Thank you for granting us passage,” the Watcher says, standing and exiting the boat in a show of grace and equilibrium that Aloth is going to have a hard time following. She barely leaves behind footprints in the wet sand. “We’ll be back before sunset.”  
  
Dorvhal just answers with a noncommittal grunt, shrugging his bony shoulders.  
  
They all file out in order after Ileána—Edér goes next, splashing through the shallows with all the poise of a wild boar; then it is Pallegina, silent and grim in her shining, sun-emblazoned armor; Sagani, methodical, economic, with Itumaak curled around her shoulders like a living scarf; it’s Aloth’s turn then, and he has to grasp at the side of the boat when his weight rocks it forward precariously; lastly, the plain woman who sat behind him the entire time. Odd. What would such an ordinary person want at Burial Isle, which is feared as much as it is revered? But the thought passes out of his mind, a cobweb blown away by the breeze.  
  
A worn set of stone-hewn stairs unfurls from the side of the hillock before them. The Watcher takes the lead, making her way up almost soundlessly—she looks strangely in place amongst all the greens and shades of emerald of Burial Isle, a creature both godlike and mundane. He tries not to think of her that way, _godlike_ , because he is well aware of how many forget those like the Watcher are people, too—sometimes, though, it is difficult, especially when it seems as though her hair is caught in an invisible tide, and her touch leaves behind quickly-fading spots of effervescent light. It only happens now and then, but it is reminder enough that she is far away.  
  
An expanse of solemn memorials awaits them at the top of the stairs: large swathes of ground are occupied by these bizarre cairns, sometimes stacked two or three high, each marked by offerings of wood and jewel, laid lovingly on the arms of the embalmed. Aloth is just grateful the bodies are wrapped, hidden from sight. The discordant beauty of the Isle is adequately unsettling as it is.  
  
They come to a stop before a particularly tall memorial, one wreathed in gifts of hide and tooth.  
  
“Do you hear that?” Sagani says, reaching up to stroke Itumaak’s cheek. The fox is pressed to her neck, ears pinned back.  
  
Edér visibly strains, cocking his head to the side. “What? What is it? I… don't hear _anything_.”  
  
Sagani nods. “Exactly.” Her dark grey eyes dart to the side, narrowing. “Not a sound. No birds, no game. Not even the wind.”  
  
The chill from earlier returns, trickling down Aloth’s spine.  
  
“This place is suspended, frozen in a moment,” the Watcher says. Her gaze is trained somewhere up beyond the patchwork canopy of pine trees, locked onto something no one else can see. “We are not alone.”  
  
Are they ever? Goosebumps erupt along Aloth’s arms and back. He grasps at the familiar shape of his grimoire as his heartbeat picks up its pace. The forest suddenly seems colder than before, its shadows longer.  
  
Edér huffs out a quick breath, sounding somewhere between exasperated and nervous. “More ghosts, huh?”  
  
Pallegina has already curled a plumed hand around the hilt of her greatsword. “It would seem so,” she murmurs. Her tone is calm, though the predatory gleam in her thin pupils disputes that impression.  
  
But the Watcher has drifted away from them, walking further up the path. “Something is wrong,” is all she says, and more to herself than anyone else.  
  
The trek upwards goes on for another twenty minutes. They find—and circumvent—the leavings of an avalanche, climb more stairs, and pass through an ascending tunnel that leads to the upper portion of the Isle. The stifling silence persists: there is only the breeze in the leaves, the occasional creak of wood, both from the totems and the gargantuan trees. There are no little mammals in the underbrush, no sparrows or crows nesting in the boughs of the pines; even the streams and brooks are clear, devoid of fish and frogs. The entire place seems like a display, carefully decorated to seem lifelike, but the effort has rung hollow.  
  
This is a stage with no actors. A song without a voice. A body without a soul.  
  
“Watcher, have care,” Pallegina cautions, but Ileána is already moving under a broken arch of stone that marks a final staircase.  
  
The Watcher arrives ahead of them by a few moments, though she stands absolutely still as the rest of them clamber up the stairs and gather around her.  
  
Aloth's breath seeps out of him in a low hiss. The plateau they're standing in is ringed in the ruined remains of granite tiers, focused around this place in a rigid half-circle. A horrible statue of Woedica towers out of the rock, its shadow swallowing half the arena. Its face is distant and terrible, impartial and cruel, twisted but blank, and it watches over all. This court would have seated hundreds in its day, and every judging, pitying, hungry eye would have been fixed down here, upon that day's accused. Aloth doesn't doubt that wherever he'd choose to stand, yards away, or on the crumbling edifice of the seats, he would have a perfect view of the yawning pit in the center—a perfect view of the condemned hurtling to their death, down, down, into the lightless bowels of Breith Eaman.  
  
It is Sagani's low query that breaks him from his observations.  
  
“Ileána?”  
  
The Watcher gives no response.  
  
Her arms and shoulders are drawn tight, tendons taut, and her eyes flicker around the court, tracking invisible paths and images. She has told him, before, that memory can make a place seem alive to her—that emotion and purpose leave their mark on locations as much as they do on people; that, often, souls and spirits become trapped by their defining moments, reliving them over and over until the cycle is broken, or time fades them into poor facsimiles of themselves… a string of words, a regret, an action that should never have been taken. These are the things that endure after physical death, clinging to the fabric of the world: the strongest sensations, good or bad, relieving or relentless.  
  
She has also said there is a common factor to any event that makes a deep impression. Violence.  
  
And this place—it is violence itself, in every meaning, and in every way.  
  
“Watcher?” Sagani tries again.  
  
Ileána does not react. She only grows stiffer, hands clenching into fists. “The Court of the Penitents,” she says, under her breath, speaking to herself. “This is where it happened. This is where…”  
  
“She cannot see us,” Pallegina says, her bright eyes sad.  
  
“She always snaps out of it sooner or later,” Edér reminds them, but he does not sound as nervous as he looks, so Aloth is not reassured in the least.  
  
They all, to a man, woman, and fox, startle when the Watcher stumbles forward with incredible speed.  
  
“Stop!” she cries, her voice cracking with grief. “You're hurting her!”  
  
She darts past him, too fast to catch, and begins to race toward the center of the court, hypnotized by a private nightmare. Everyone around him lurches into motion, galvanized by concern. Aloth’s heart nearly explodes from his sternum, propelled by sheer, instant terror.  
  
 _The pit._  
  
Edér reacts the most swiftly, trapper's reflexes working like a well-oiled machine. One thick arm lashes out, grabbing her around the waist with iron strength as the she tries to move past him. She does not fight back—just sags over his elbow at the touch, gasping as though she's been winded. Edér bends his knees, letting the momentum carry them downward. The Watcher follows listlessly, sliding to ground with no resistance. Clouds of dust billow around them, disturbed by the scuffle.  
  
“Easy,” Aloth hears Edér say.  
  
Pallegina is watching, inert, arrested by what Aloth assumes is the sudden knowledge that she has no idea how to help now that the urgency is past. He assumes this because that is exactly how he feels, for he is not gifted with the talent of reading others, or giving them what they need. He had not been fast enough. He doesn't deserve to try.  
  
The Watcher takes a few breaths, her eyes still unfocused, and then promptly turns away to vomit a wealth of bile onto the soil.  
  
Sagani has moved to the Watcher's side to rub a small hand into her back, and even Itumaak stretches from his place around Sagani’s neck to lick at the Watcher's cheek.  
  
“She's shaking like a twig in a storm,” Sagani says, never once stopping the rhythmic motions of her hand. Aloth is struck by her ease, her fluid adaptation to the situation. It is intimate and motherly, and it makes a knot form in his throat.  
  
“I know,” Edér remarks with a frown. He is still holding onto the Watcher, as though he's frightened she will simply evaporate from between his arms.  
  
A chill breeze brushes past Aloth, and he shudders.  
  
A village woman is kneeling in front of the Watcher, her thin hands outstretched. Edér and Sagani don't seem shocked. Pallegina does not draw her blade. Aloth is at war with himself for all for three seconds, an unnatural calm battling with his wizard's senses. Who is this person? How did she follow them all the way out here? Had she been on the boat with them? Impossible.  
  
The village woman clasps Ileána's face between her palms and speaks. “Breathe, child,” she murmurs, and every hair on Aloth's body rises at the sound.  
  
“I'm sorry,” the Watcher is saying, tears streaming down her cheeks. Aloth knows that expression—the agony of guilt. “I'm so sorry, I couldn't stop it, I didn't say anything—”  
  
“Do not weep, gentle one,” the voice murmurs. Aloth catches the silvery song of chimes on the wind. Again, gooseflesh prickles at his nape. “The dream is being dreamt, but you are not asleep. Leave the stones to their sorrows. You cannot carry them all.”  
  
A moment passes.  
  
The Watcher draws in a ragged breath, like a person surfacing after a long time underwater. “You...”  
  
“It is I.”  
  
“You brought me back.”  
  
“You were always here, Watcher.”  
  
Itumaak barks sharply, once, and Aloth almost jumps out of his skin. Sagani shooshes him with a free hand.  
  
“You alright there?” she asks the Watcher, who is still sitting in the circle of Edér's cage of an embrace, staring straight at the empty space in front of her.  
  
“I'm myself again,” Ileána says. She wipes at the wet tracks on her face with the back of a hand as Edér sighs in relief. Sagani nods in satisfaction and steps away.  
  
Even Pallegina, resplendent in plate, seems to soften around the edges at the admission. “ _Ado_ , Watcher.”  
  
Ileána chuckles hoarsely. “Hello.”  
  
“Scared us darn good that time,” Edér admonishes, shaking her lightly by the shoulders. “Had to consider hogtying you.”  
  
“You mean I'm not?”  
  
Edér grimaces, jutting out his bottom jaw.  “Hel, she's feeling better already. You think you can stand?”  
  
“Yes,” the Watcher says firmly. “Just give me a moment.”  
  
Aloth eyes her warily while she peels herself from the ground, rebuffing Edér's offer to help.  
  
“Are you sure you're alright?” Aloth asks. What a stupid question. _Of course not._ But it's all that comes to mind.  
  
Ileána nods, fixing her posture. “Absolutely. I am right as rain.”  
  
That is the last thing the Watcher says before she faints clean away.


	4. how it should be

She does not wake up abruptly, coldly, launched from the tangle of a nightmare, but rather in a comfortable bed, with the covers tucked up to her elbows and her arms resting at her sides.  
  
The sweet musk of cedar betrays the location, even before her tired eyes focus on a casually-garbed Sagani, sitting in a chair by her bedside. This is the beautiful inn in Hearthsong, where dwellings are nestled into tree trunks, and leafy boughs brush every window. She had purchased them the best rooms outsider coin could buy, a spacious suite up in the canopy far from the noise of the ground and the open common room of the inn. It is this quiet that greets her now. The last of the day's light is shining through the stained glass of the window in the wall adjacent, turning an entire section of the bed scarlet; and by the window, tall and gaunt and utterly motionless, is Grieving Mother, wrapped in her tattered shawls, keeping watch like a marble sentinel.  
  
Something furry ghosts by her knuckles. It’s Itumaak, padding across the mattress to poke his nose into Sagani's downturned face. The dwarf startles out of her doze with a gasp.  
  
“You upstart. What was that about?”  
  
He chitters at her, makes a circle, and climbs on Ileána's knees, sitting smugly on his haunches.  
  
Sagani's grey eyes widen. “Oh. _Oh._ You're awake.”  
  
“I think so,” Ileána rasps. “What happened?”  
  
“What's the last thing you remember?”  
  
Ileána breathes deeply as she thinks. “I remember… leaving here in the morning. Chartering the ferry. And then…” Her stomach swoops low, like its bottom has fallen out, and fear turns her fingers chilly. “Then… Burial Isle.”  
  
“Yeah,” Sagani says slowly, wiping one hand across her jaw. “Burial Isle. Bit of a ride.”  
  
“How long have I been out?”  
  
“Couple of hours. You actually slept soundly after the fact, so nobody wanted to wake you.”  
  
Ileána sighs. She doesn’t feel rested at all—but she supposes that’s to be expected. A prolonged fainting spell can’t make up for nights and nights of shattered slumber. “I appreciate it.”  
  
“Don’t mention it.”  
  
“Ah, _belfetto._ The Watcher returns to us.”  
  
Ileána opens her eyes to the sight of Pallegina stepping over the threshold of the room, past the open door, and straight past Grieving Mother; she’s out of her armor, a rare thing, dressed in a pair of soft trousers and a white shirt. Monochrome is flattering on her in a way that it isn’t for most—she is beautiful in an effortless, uncomplicated way, a steady presence entirely without pretension or fanfare.  
  
“Pallegina,” Ileána croaks. “Were you waiting outside?”  
  
The paladin gives her a tiny smile. “We took turns sitting by you, Watcher. It is no trouble.”  
  
“Oh.” She thanks the gods she doesn't visibly blush. “...Thank you.”  
  
“Like I said. No trouble.”  
  
“Where are Aloth and Edér?”  
  
Pallegina crosses her arms, thoughtful. “Aloth is reading in the sitting room. Or pretending to read. He is terrible at dealing with worry. And Edér left some time ago to fetch us food. Shall I call for Aloth?”  
  
Ileána nods, wincing at the pain in her side. “Please. I need to speak with all of you when Edér gets back.”  
  
Pallegina shoots her an understanding look. “It will be done.”  
  
“Thank you,” Ileána says as the paladin leaves the room.  
  
Itumaak is now busy with licking his front paws clean, brushing one repetitively over the prim triangle of his muzzle. Sagani is only half-watching him, caught between wanting to ask a question and a great respect for privacy.  
  
“It's alright,” Ileána assures her softly. “You don't have to wonder. I saw something on Burial Isle. Something horrible.”  
  
Sagani's mouth presses into a thin, stern line. “We guessed as much.”  
  
Ileána’s voice is barely a whisper of sound. “Iovara died there.”  
  
Sagani scowls, her dark eyes full of sorrow and reproach. “Thaos?”  
  
“Yes,” Ileána murmurs.  
  
“I assume you have a plan,” Sagani says.  
  
In the quiet of the room, Ileána can almost hear the tolling of the bell in the void, the chime that follows her into sleep and sings in time to the rhythm of her heart. The call of the deep. Grieving Mother wraps thin arms around herself, as though she’s chilled to the bone.  
  
Ileána feels like she's falling when she says, “I do. I must speak with Berath.”


	5. how it began

_ Two girls sit in the dark of a cramped wardrobe, huddled together, pressing out the screams with the palms of their hands. They both listen to the awful chorus of shattering glass, the shrieking crescendo of insults and lies and blame. It is always the same, no matter the argument. It always ends the same way. With blood. _   
  
_ She cries into Iovara's tunic, trying to suffocate the sound. _   
  
_ “Hush,” Iovara says, but her hand trembles as she strokes the back of Ora's head. “Hush,  _ hwegen.  _ It'll be over soon.” _   
  
_ “Ara, I'm scared,” she whimpers. Phlegm is clogging her throat. _   
  
_ “I know. I know. Just think of the meadow. Try to drift away from here.” _   
  
_ The next crash resounds through the walls, too, making the rafters of their flimsy house shake and spit dust. A woman howls. Iovara will have to tend to Mother again, no doubt. She hid the last of the bandages and salve behind a loose plank in the kitchen, to save for a day when Father's rage would spill over again. It did not take long for that day to arrive. It never does. _   
  
_ “What if she dies?” Ora blurts. “What if they kill each other?” _   
  
_ “Mother won't die,” Iovara tells her. _   
  
_ “I hate her, but I don't want her to die.” _   
  
_ “She won't.” _   
  
_ “Where would we go if they were gone? We have no one…” _   
  
_ Iovara tightens her embrace. “We have each other. We will always have each other, Ora.” _   
  
_ Ora sniffles, dampening her sister's tunic further. It seems like she has more than enough to spare. She could cry forever, and she would still not be able to wash away the emptiness she feels with the salt of her tears. She clings to Iovara, small pale hands twisting and grasping, holding hard onto her last hope. _   
  
_ “Do you promise?” Ora whispers. _   
  
_ Iovara presses a kiss to her damp temple, fluttery-soft. “I promise.” _


End file.
